


buttercup babe

by GreenTam



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Childbirth, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Horror, Jaskier is Renfri's Son, Jaskier is magical, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, LITERALLY, Mentions of Canon Rape, Miscarriage, Monster of the Week, Multi, Period Typical Bigotry, Period-Typical Homophobia, Polyamory, Pre-OT3, Prophecy, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Yennefer, Yennefer loves her boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22485625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenTam/pseuds/GreenTam
Summary: There's something about Jaskier that reminds Geralt of someone. His dark hair. His large, soft eyes and peach cheeks. His thin, tall body and the way he leans across the table to smirk up at the Witcher: words falling from his lips like silk, enchanting and enthralling.Jaskier was born on a blanket of buttercups and dandelions, to a cursed mother held in the arms of a stranger.(On hiatus!)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 168
Kudos: 1445





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: depiction of childbirth, and references of canon rape

In her dreams, she is soothed. Lilit comes and with a deep breath blows away the feeling of his touch on her flesh and replaces it with the warmth of her goddess’ embrace. Gone are the heavy, cruel pads of his wandering fingers and in their place a soft, woolen shawl draped across her bare shoulders. Under the moon of her goddess and in the depths of her dreams; Renfri is truly free.

But when she wakes she sees his eyes staring down at her with unsolicited lust. It drips down off of him onto her crumbling face as she shrieks and claws and does all she can to get him  _ off.  _

Blue eyes. Eyes that she might have thought pretty if they weren’t now burned against her and if the fumes of which did not clog her throat and run tears down her cheeks. 

Her mother had blue eyes and she clings to that like she clings to the dirt under her nails, as she grips the earth to remind herself what is real and what is in the past. Her chest heaves and puffs out clouds into the frigid air. The canopy of leaves above her are turning brown as winter approaches, and Renfri knows she cannot stay alone for much longer: anyone traveling without a troupe of some kind risked their lives or worse, let alone a young woman still weary from a prior attack. 

The princess fallen takes a deep, steadying breath and hauls herself up off the cold ground. Against her hip is her brooch, dried blood still caught in the tiny grooves, and on her back is the rags of what was once her cape- torn almost in two with each ragged end gathered up to wrap around her- and that is all she has for worldly belongings. No matter, she thinks. She has Lilit on her side and a voice to charm anyone she wishes. 

She will have blood. No matter how long it took her. 

Renfri tells herself that is all that matters. That is all that matters.

That. Nothing else.

Not even, perhaps, the swell of her belly.

* * *

He is born on a warm spring morning. She lies screaming in a swathe of yellow flowers. 

The mother’s skin glows with sweat and sunlight, shining bright in her sacrifice as she does what aged sorcerers in their secret alcoves claimed she would never be capable of. By their lips claims of death following her everywhere fall, and Renfri’s trembling mouth snarls and twists into a feral cackle as she thinks about how wrong they were.

How wrong they all were. 

_Fuck them._ She thinks, ruthlessly, as she screams and pushes. _Fuck all of them._

A hobbling wise woman reaches the lost princess hours into her agony, and Renfri learns what tender hands feel like when they comb through her drenched hair comfortingly- soothes with words of encouragement like a mother should. Tears spring to her eyes and another woman, this one younger, grips her hand like her sister should have.

“You’re almost there lass, almost there” The haggard midwife tells her. Renfri recalls meeting this woman when she went into the market for new shoes. Remembers how the elderly woman had been picking apples and herbs into her basket, and had reached across to touch the bloat of Renfri’s stomach.

Her eyes had been so warm, so loving, so concerned. 

She had told Renfri the time was near and in return Renfri had stolen the bread from the hedgewitch’s basket. The very same bread that now laid on the ground, cast aside with the rest of Renfri’s belongings: tossed there when the pains first began. 

Strangers. The both of them. A midwife and her granddaughter apprentice. 

But between them offered the only pure love Renfri had known in months. 

The hands on her thighs don’t remind her of  _ his.  _ They’re too gentle. Too warm. They rub in comforting circles and give small squeezes when Renfri does well.

Her dark eyes cast up and catch on the apprentice’s own, and Renfri’s vicious grin is met by a dazzling smile rivaling the sun burning down on the trio.

“I can see the babe. You’re almost there” The apprentice tells her, voice soft. 

Strangers. Strangers. Renfri wants to cast them aside. To bite the hand smoothing her sweat soaked hair from her eyes and rubbing up her sore arms. She wants to kick the beautiful face of the young apprentice who looks back down between Renfri’s legs, not with lust as  _ he  _ had but with a spark of something so fierce and tender, that her feet stay planted either side of the stranger.

“Yes! Yes! Come on!”

Renfri doesn’t know who chants. She knows nothing but the encompassing agony burning through her body. She’s never cried before but now she sobs. A climbing hysteria wrecks her as she  _ pushes…  _ and  _ pushes. _

“You’ve done it, girl” The old maid praises, kissing Renfri’s temple. “A little buttercup babe”

Her brow furrows as euphoria like no other floods her. The pain of hours in labour vanishes at the sound of a shrill cry.

In the arms of the apprentice, squirming and bloody and glistening in the sunlight, is her baby. 

Her baby.

“A boy” The apprentice weeps. “A beautiful one”

She comes closer, around to Renfri’s side, and lowers the child to Renfri’s breast. 

“Aye, a good pair of lungs on him” The midwife chuckles but Renfri doesn’t take any notice.

Here he is. Born on a bed of buttercups. In a pool of rich, golden sun. He’s pink and screaming, wrinkled and puffy, but Renfri has never seen anything more beautiful in her life. His eyes are large and bright, and they glitter cornflower blue like the portraits of her mother used to.

He’s precious. Too precious. 

The shadow of Stregobor looms over them, blotting out Renfri’s rush of rare joy. 

Adorna looks to her grandmother when the poor woman bursts into tears, earnest and heart-wrenching, and her grandmother shakes her head. Any woman traveling alone who chose to bear her babe in the forest had an unhappy reason to be so. That morning her grandmother returned from the market to tell of a girl Adorna’s own age, heavy with babe, stealing bread and hiding in the woods as if anyone around her might plunge a dagger in her back at any moment. 

They had listened. They had lingered close to the tree line and heard familiar cries. 

For forty years, her grandmother had helped women bring their gifts into the world, and Adorna hoped such a long future lay out for her too.

But never had her grandmother encountered a woman so distraught. 

“My boy. My buttercup” Renfri gasps, lips pressed to the soft skin of her baby’s crown. He’s quiet now. Ushered to sleep by the rocking of the old midwife, who’s thin arms held Renfri close. So unaware of his mother’s grief. 

Above them a lark sings. 

* * *

“You must not let anyone know he is mine” Renfri whispers, still holding her babe close even as her friend, Leaneme, nears to take him. 

She doesn’t want to release him. This one thing in her life that knew beauty and made her heart swell with joy. But he would never be safe, not while Stregobor still lived and breathed and hunted her down, and who would know what prophecy he would conjure to justify the murder of her baby. 

“He is a threat to my half-brother’s claim” She continues, scowling at the ever stacking reasons why her baby can never know the life he was meant for. Not only had Stregobor stolen her own life from her, but also that of her son. Her little prince.

The prince that never was.

Leaneme listens intently with her hands reaching, but they hover patiently in respect to Renfri’s reluctance. Handing over a child when the mother longed to keep them was never going to be easy.

Leaneme was a companion of Renfri’s once, when the royal troupe visited Redania, and although Renfri only passed through the town Leaneme’s parents governed the two little girls had agreed to send letters frequently. And so they had, for over a decade. She was far from Renfri’s first choice to entrust like this, but she’s the closest to the village where a kind old midwife and her granddaughter had been, and Renfri feels a vigor for blood like nothing before.

He just needs to be safe for a while. Until Stregobor’s blood stained Renfri’s blade; then she would be back for her buttercup babe.

Renfri observes her old friend once more, taking in those kind eyes that have never known the traumas she herself had, and wonders that life would have been like in Leaneme’s shoes. 

“I shall return” She promises, both to her boy and Leaneme. “You understand, don’t you?”

Leaname sighs. She takes the baby from Renfri, her heart breaking at the hitch in her old friend’s breath, and presses a kiss to Renfri’s brow. “I do. I do, my dear friend, I do”

Without the child in her arms, Renfri’s armour packs back on and Leaneme witnesses the change with a spike of fear in her gut. This woman, who wrote her letters and sent her trinkets and jewels, knew so much death. 

“His name?” Leaneme asks the woman she once knew. Renfri’s dark gaze is too guarded now, as she looks at her child, so closed off Leaneme could almost wonder if there was any love there at all. But Leaneme was no arrogant man in a tower, leaning over books and bubbling potions, who believed he knew the inner workings of a woman and her agency.

Renfri, Leaneme understands, cannot afford to love her babe yet. Not while that monster still hunted her.

“Call him whatever you wish” Renfri replies coldly. It’s nearly a perfect mask.

Leaneme peeks through the crack in it and smiles sadly. “You called him your buttercup. Perhaps… Jaskier?”

Renfri nods. The tear down her cheek fits not with the stone expression she hides behind. 

“Call him what you wish”

She turns away. She walks from the manor her old friend lived in and does not look back. 

Had she known that this would be the last time she would lay eyes on her boy, Renfri might have lingered longer. Might have kissed him, or sung him a song. She might have left him with a token of her love. Instead she walks away without a single glance.

Leaneme names him Julian Alfred, for her father and her husband’s father, but on her lips when the pair are alone, is Jaskier.


	2. no son of mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: mentions of past miscarriages, jaskier's sister blames him for their mother's miscarriages, discrimination against people born out of wedlock, period typical homophobia

North, Renfri falls at the sword of a Witcher in a northern town. South of Blaviken, in Lettenhove, her child grows ever stronger and brighter.

Leaneme’s husband had been confused at first, then that confusion gave way to anger when his dear wife wouldn’t answer his questions about the child’s origins. It had taken her months to wear him down and make him see that just because the boy was not of their blood, did not mean he couldn’t be the Count’s son. They already had a daughter, three years Julian’s senior, with one miscarried son since, and Leaneme knew her husband longed for a boy.

In the end his love for her overcame his bafflement and rage, and he made her a promise.

Lest they have a son of their own, the boy would be viscount.

Now, the Lettenhove estate stretches far into the Redanian landscape. Rolling, rich green hills and fertile soil bringing an abundance of crop to trade: the majority of which was carted off to Tretogor, and the ruling nobles, the Pankratz family, were paid generously for their contributions to their country. While not a large town and surrounding land in comparison to other areas, they were wealthy and content. At night, lost in her thoughts, the Countess would wonder if Renfri chose her for the boy’s adopted mother for this reason, or if there were other factors at play.

Today she sits in the gardens enjoying the mid-summer heat on her elegantly folded legs. Her red crown is under the shade of a large tree, but the rest of her is bathed in bright sunlight rich on her purple gown. Not far from her is a little girl and a little boy.

Istede and Julian. Her beloved babies.

Leaneme observes the children from only an arm’s reach away, her stitching balanced on her large pregnant bump, and sees how Julian crouches to peer down at something in the grass. Not far from him, Istede was collecting grass that had grown to seed and bunching them together in her other hand like a bouquet. 

Renfri is there, she can see it clearly in the way the sunlight dances on Julian’s dark, fluffy mop of hair. Her mouth lifts into a small smile as the child huffs and brushes said hair from his eyes. The action screams of the woman who bore him so loudly Leaneme finds tears forming in her eyes and her lip trembling. 

Two years of age and his mother is gone. Renfri dreamed of returning to her boy and Leaneme resents the Brotherhood for destroying something so precious for Renfri and Julian both. As agreed should Renfri not succeed, Julian will never know his true heritage for fear of repercussions down the line, and although her husband still rows with her over the origins of this babe she brought into his household she can see he is beginning to see the boy as his own. Only Leaneme knows where Julian came from. 

“Ma-” The babe perks up, in his palm a beetle. He shows it to her, toddling over on unsteady legs, and Leaneme feels guilty for the swell of joy she feels at the name: feeling as if, despite Renfri’s blessing, she has no right to be known as such. 

Leaneme puts aside her stitching and reaches to cup his hands in her own, her head dipped close to his as they peer down at the glossy insect moving over his peach palms. “Oh my darling, it’s pretty, isn’t it? A pretty beetle. Istede come see this beetle Julian has found”

Julian’s lips pout in thought.

She flinches back in shock when he suddenly squeezes his hand shut. The sound of the beetle’s carapace cracking is louder to her than it should be and Leaneme recoils away when the insect’s juices squelch through the creases of Julian’s fist.

“Julian!” Leaneme snaps, breaking out of her horror and swatting the back of his wrist lightly. He releases the bug, but it’s nothing more than a tiny mass of black mulch, and ducks down to wipe his hand in the grass. 

He straightens up and grins toothily at her. Julian is too young to understand why his mama looks so horrified.

Leaneme watches the toddler trot away as if nothing out of the ordinary happened and recalls the tales of violence Renfri had been capable of. How Renfri, in her letters, would tell of how she never understood why it was such a bother to her maids that she would kill bugs herself or why it made another little girl scream to see her crush a chicken she’d caught while they played together. 

_ They’re so fragile, my dear Leanie. I could feel its bones under its feathers and I just had to see what would happen if I squeezed.  _

Had her Julian wondered what would happen too, if he squeezed? 

“Such innocent violence” Leaneme whispers to herself. She would have to watch that. Make sure Julian’s proclivity did not escalate to Renfri’s levels. No maids in her household would find combs in their eyes, not if she could help it.

She lets out a breath, and with it her trembling horror, and then picks her stitching back up: one eye on the thread, the other on the boy now rolling merrily in the rich green grass. 

“Ma?” Istede asks, disappointed to not see a beetle. Her pretty bouquet of seeding grass stems seem mocking now. A display to Leaneme of what Julian should have done.

_ They call me a monster, Leanie. I don’t like it. _

“Julian dropped it” She tells her and Istede makes a quiet ‘oh’ only to then offer her prize to her mother. 

Istede looks over at Julian, then back to her mother. “Don’t be sad, ma. He’s just a clumsy baby”

Her tone is so factual, so certain, and said by such a young child it has Leaneme chuckling despite the tremor in her bones. 

“Oh yes, Istede, he is, isn’t he? Only a babe”

Only a babe.

* * *

“Mother!”

She doesn’t need to look up from her reading to know which of her daughters was storming into the solar. Elsbeth, eight summers old, fair skinned and flame haired like her sister and mother before her, stood before Leaneme with her cheeks red and wet. 

“Beth?” Leaneme gasps, putting her book aside to reach for Elsbeth’s teary face. She gently wipes the tears away. “My dear one, what has you crying?”

The little girl sniffs. “Julian”

Odd. Usually the culprit of Elsbeth’s tears was Istede’s snobbish nature, fine tuned now she was due to be wed. She thought herself too old for silly games with her little sister and was not often kind in her dismissals of the girl who just wanted to play dolls. To hear that Julian made Elsbeth cry was unheard of.

“What did he do?”

“He hit Marcus!”

Leaneme reels back, blinking in surprise. Her boy was fierce, no doubt, and in his younger years was prone to outbursts of throwing pots and toys and well, whatever his arms could lift. But since Leaneme fell pregnant once again and Istede accused Julian’s tantrums as being the cause of Leaneme’s prior miscarriages due to stress, the boy had controlled himself better. No matter how Istede was punished for her cruel words nor how much Leaneme strived to make Julian understand that what happened to the babies within her had nothing to do with his temper, he’d never quite been the same. 

That, combined with the fact that Marcus was Julian’s friend, had Leaneme confound. 

“He struck him?” 

Elsbeth nods, tearing up again. “He hit him with the gardener’s rake”

Leaneme’s body floods cold. A rake?

“Mother, there was so much blood and Julian ran away and Marcus is in the garden bleeding and he won’t wake up-”

She pulls her daughter into her arms. “Hush, hush. Take me to him, Beth. We’ll summon a healer”

The scene itself is not as horrific as Elsbeth described, but there was no mistaking what caused the wounds down Marcus’ cheek. The boy lay tossed aside on the ground, looking pale and lifeless, but within an hour of the healer arriving the wisened man confirmed Marcus would be fine: albeit scarred for life from the prongs tearing deep into his skin. Elsbeth spent the hours sobbing and proclaiming she would never forgive her brother, while Istede stoically combed her fingers through her sister’s hair and failed to hide a roll of her eyes from Leaneme’s gaze.

Her husband had sent men out to find Julian, and only when the moon was high in the night sky did they return with the terror stricken boy in tow. 

Eleven years of age, Julian suffers his first caning from the Count. It was not across his palms as Leaneme knew his tutor would, but across the back of the boy’s thighs and she also knew, with certainty, that Julian’s tutor never left bruises so deep and purple they lasted for weeks afterwards. 

It was to everyone’s surprise when Marcus awoke, that he returned Julian’s apology immediately.

“I should not have called Istede a…” He clears his throat, squirming under the eyes of those crowded around his bed. “A bitch”

Someone gasps, perhaps Leaneme herself, but she doesn’t pay it attention: too distracted by the grin of triumph on Julian’s lips. 

“She is not kind, but neither is she that horrible name you called her” Her boy, her beautiful boy, who was his mother’s son, shines as bright as Renfri once did. Leaneme is both horrified and proud. “If you want to marry Elsbeth, you should be nicer”

Marcus squawks and throws his pillow at Julian. It all seems to be the same as ever. 

Only Marcus stops spending time with Julian and Leaneme can see fear in the boy’s eyes, framed by the scars down his cheek. She does not know if Julian cares.

* * *

Julian grows to look nothing like herself nor her husband, enough for others to comment at visits and parties. The Pankratz are a fair featured lot; pale skinned and hair so light it could almost be mistaken for white. 

His hair is dark and fluffy, like Renfri’s. His face is soft and eyes large, like Renfri’s. His stature is lithe and tall, like Renfri’s. 

His voice is alluring and his words are silver. Just like Renfri. 

Leaneme is no fool. She knows there’s nothing natural about her son’s ability to charm anyone he speaks to. People seem to enjoy doing things for him and he needs only ask. It’s uncanny. It’s frightening at times and she frets over the thought of him taking it too far, as Renfri would have, and asking too much. The only person immune is the Viscount, and his eyes only grow with hate the more he watches the boy dance around the hall with girl after girl; needing no more convincing than a smile and an offer. Even to those whom are betrothed and ought to know better.

She sees the moment his thread bare tolerance snaps, as if in slow motion, when Julian extends a hand to a boy this time. 

Her husband has stormed across the hall as though it is a race and clamps down on Julian’s hand before the surprised boy can even think to respond to Julian’s quiet request for a dance. Leaneme flinches at how tight her husband’s hand squeezes down on Julian’s slender, artist’s hand and almost trips over the hem of her gown to rush to their side.

“- embarrassment to this household no longer! Come with me” She catches her husband’s growling words. 

Their guests ogle the sight like fish, jaws dropped, and Elsbeth looks furious to have her betrothal banquet interrupted as such, but Leaneme has eyes for none of them as she runs after her husband. 

She arrives in time to see her husband thrust Julian into the small dining room the family ate at when not hosting parties or larger groups, and winces when her boy hits the table and stumbles.

“Father...” Julian chirps, genuinely frightened. His mouth tries to smile but his eyes are watery. Even though he stands heads over the pair of them, Julian seems the smallest of all three in the room now.

The Count’s lip curls and his fists tighten. “Don’t! Don’t call me that, boy. I am no father of yours”

Leaneme gasps and slams the door shut behind her, alerting the pair to her presence, and storms forward to grip her husband’s arm. “Not so loud! How could you be so reckless?”

He shakes her off, stern but as gentle as he always was with her and the girls, and turns back on Julian: who looks, the poor boy, as if his entire world has fallen down around him. Her little wordsmith is for once, at a loss.

“Who cares? Certainly not I. I have my boy and his name is Gervan.” He points to the door, where back at the banquet a nanny was running after an unruly boy of six. Unlike Julian, Gervan’s hair was fine and red, his skin was pale and his stature was short. Unlike Julian, he had Pankratz blood. “I made you a promise, Leanie, and the terms are up. This insolent boy is to leave this household and never sully the Pankratz name again”

Julian finds his voice. “No son of yours? Mother, what does he mean?… Am I… Mother, am I a bastard?”

Leaneme wants to say no, of course not. He is legitimate. But the problem is she does not know. To her knowledge Renfri was never married and had never mentioned who Julian’s father might be; unless Renfri had a secret husband, Leaneme could only assume that yes. Julian was a bastard.

But a prince. A secret she had no right to tell. 

“You had an affair?” Julian looks at her as if he’s never seen her before, but his tone nor eyes are judgmental. Only confused. 

The Count snorts. “No, boy. Leaneme did not bear you. She brought you home one day, Melitele knows where from, and told me to treat you as my own: I tried, I did. But you were vile. Sweet words one moment, then violence the next. Elsbeth marries a scarred man because of you! You fool with girls of all classes and have not even the decency to be subtle about it, and now… Now  _ men  _ too?”

He stabs a finger up in Julian’s face.

“You will not curse my house, sodomite! How dare you remain- Leave! Get out!”

Julian looks desperately to Leaneme. She’s lost for words. She’s always known Julian’s eyes saw beauty everywhere, even in the other boys he learned to read and ride horses with, and she knew he had kissed the cobbler’s youngest son a year prior before the boy in question was sent away for a smithy apprenticeship. There was no defending him knowing that, especially not now when he had gotten lost in the moment and proposed a dance to a man so publically. 

Julian had taken things too far… Like Renfri would have.

“Go” She whispers, gesturing faintly to the door, and closes her eyes to hide the way Julian’s face crumbles. “I love you, my boy, but you must go”

She hears his footsteps and hears the door close behind him. When she opens her eyes, Julian is gone. 

Leaneme turns, with tears glistening and unshed in her eyes, and slaps her husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case the timeline is as confusing as the show:  
> 1226 - Istede is born  
> 1229 - Jaskier is born  
> 1231 - Renfri dies at Blaviken, Jaskier crushes a beetle aged 2  
> 1232 - Elsbeth is born, Jaskier is nearly 3  
> 1240 - Jaskier hits his friend in the face with a rake for calling his sister, Istede, a bitch  
> 1241 - Gervan is born, and unknown to Jaskier, replaces him as heir  
> 1247 - Jaskier is 18, and is disowned by the Count and Leaneme after 'disgracing' them at his sister, Elsbeth's, betrothal banquet   
>  [ View the family here](https://tammirants.tumblr.com/post/611965981288431616/top-to-bottom-left-to-right-leaneme-raelee)
> 
> Istede will make another appearance in this fic, because I kinda high key love her, but I'm not sure about Elsbeth. What are people's thoughts on Jaskier's sisters? Oooh thoughts on Leaneme now???


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: depictions of death, discussions of torture and someone suffering with severe trauma. And also whatever I call this plot.

The city of Murviel was a sprawling one. It stretched out far, nearly touching the river, and clustering around the castle standing proud. It was large enough to have more than one inn and tavern, which worked in their favour, as once turned away from the first, Geralt and Jaskier need not walk much further to the next one: this one filled with eager patrons grabbing for Jaskier’s talents and a keeper who was willing to turn a blind eye to an otherwise unwelcome Witcher so long as the bard played something new.

“All the bard’s we’ve had ‘ere are copycats” She sniffs, tapping her fingers on the counter top to the tune Jaskier plays. He had been enjoying his peace, nestled in the far corner on his third ale. But there was something purposeful about the keeper’s approach, so he waits for her to reach her point before perhaps telling her to piss off. “S’good to hear the classics from the man ‘imself”

Geralt hums to himself, quietly approving of her compliments while keeping up the vice strong guard that anyone blowing Jaskier’s trumpet frustrated him. It was something of a game between the pair of them, one that in recent months spread to include Yennefer too when her path crossed their’s, that they would back and forth over whether or not Geralt truly enjoyed the tunes or not. Jaskier’s eyes would grow ever so bright and his smile ever so wide the more Geralt grumbled and muttered contradictions at the bard’s claims despite the imperceptible- to anyone but Jaskier- twitch at the corner of his otherwise stern, grim mouth.

“Fortunate yer should pull up ‘ere too, sir Witcher” The matronly woman continues, and it’s a testament to Jaskier’s work as Geralt’s barker that she carelessly swats his arm to catch his attention better. Yellow eyes snap to her from where they had been watching Jaskier skip between tables. “Got a few lot ‘ere talkin’ of a beast up the mountain not too far north of ‘ere. Been the talk of Murviel it has. There’s been flyers these last few weeks but none’a come forward, no one worth shit anyways: buncha mercenaries endin’ up dead probably, least no one’s heard from them since they trotted off up it”

As much as Geralt detests cities, they were a hive of rumours and possible leads to contracts. He and his companion could find themselves traveling through town and village for weeks without finding a whiff of a job outside of Jaskier’s jigs in the taverns, however cities were where the truly desperate ran to in the hopes of someone to help. 

“Used’ta be a little ‘amlet down at the base but they’s all been killed by the beast now. Shame that” She tsks, not sounding remotely grieved. Geralt snorts, sardonically, into his drink. “You’s best speak to ol’ Karran over there, by fire. She’s the only one with all ‘er wits still up there”

He looks where she points to, and sure enough there’s a hollow eyed woman of perhaps thirty crowded almost too close to the sparking flames. Unlike others in the tavern she’s unmoved by Jaskier’s performance. She barely seems to be aware of anyone around her at all. 

The Witcher shoots the tavern keeper a dubious look and she cackles.

“You think she looks gone fer? Oh gods, should you see them other ones. Speakin’ in nonsense and screamin’ at cats an’ shadows alike. Closest thing to a sentence be said by her and no one else who’s seen the fuckin’ thing”

The words seem to settle between them like a weight, and the tavern wench is called away by another gasping customer to Geralt’s relief. Talking was Jaskier’s arena, and although he had always managed just fine before the bard to gather his own contracts, the heavy conversation the woman had tried to glean from Geralt- like prizing a chunk of meat from the jaws of a dog- left the Witcher feeling unusually exhausted. The type of weariness not from any physical exertion and one he could never easily explain to others.

Gold eyes flit back to the hollow shell of a woman by the fire, and notice with slitted pupils that her hands still tremble despite the heat blasting from both the flames and from the many bodies packed within the tavern. Even from this distance, Geralt can see goosebumps barely formed on her wrists just before the cut off of her sleeves. Odd.

Against his better judgement and ignoring the wandering hand of a passing woman down his chest, Geralt wades through the crowds until he stops before the broken creature. He towers above her unintentionally and finds himself hunching subconsciously. 

She is gaunt. Barely more than bones like the bodies in her old village but her heart is strangely slow. Steady. As if some kind of false serenity had fallen over her.

“Hm” He clears his throat, wincing when in the background Jaskier bursts into a round of Fishmonger’s Daughter. Even though he is certain Human ears would have never heard him, drowned out by his companion’s din, she blinks slowly and turns her head up with eerie calm that crawls under his skin. 

Something, he concludes, is profoundly wrong with this woman. 

Her eyes as they peer up at him are blank and the pupils wide. 

“Blood in the rivers at dawn” The broken little thing says to him, reaching across the small space to grasp his gloved paw in her own frail fingers. It’s as if in that moment, there is no one else but them in the room. He gingerly eases his hand away from her grasp when a whimsical smile curls at her lips. “Blood in the rivers… Oh yes, blood in the rivers. At dawn, blood in the rivers at dawn”

If she is considered to be the most coherent of survivors; Geralt finds himself deeply disturbed to wonder how the others must be.

* * *

When they arrive at the village, Geralt can smell the change in Jaskier’s scent. It sours into something fearful and devastated; overflowing with a deep kind of grief for people he had never met that history told Geralt was rare to find in Humans. Perhaps that was why he found himself peculiarly tolerant of Jaskier’s presence over other people. 

The bard’s face briefly flashes with anguish but, to Geralt’s admiration, he schools it and studies the area with the kind of focus he could have only learned from observing a Witcher for nigh on a decade. With a quiet hum of approval, bright gold eyes cast around in their own study of the shell of what was likely once a bustling, cute little community. The worst of it was not the torn apart houses nor the caved in stables, and certainly not the claw marks gouged deep in the sodden earth. The worst of it was in fact that the people of Murviel feared what killed this village so much that no one had dared even come to collect the dead. 

The stench burns Geralt’s nose and despite decades of training his eyes start to water from the fumes coiling into the air from weeks old corpses. There aren’t many, to both men’s relief, it was likely the home to only a tiny gathering, but those that are scattered are frozen in poses of scrambling terror with clouded eyes wide and at least six have  _ parts  _ missing.

“It played with them” Jaskier whispers, crouching and peering with a composure not found in a mere bard, at the body of what might have once been a middle aged woman. “This lady… she grabbed at the ground”

Geralt has seen a great many different things in his time. He knows of creatures that take enjoyment from their kills- Drowners, Nekkers, Sirens…- however none seemed so sadistic. Jaskier’s note of the woman beside him was a prevalent feature in all the bodies. The ground around them showed signs of a game being played. Dirt packed under their nails. Mud smeared across all sides mirroring smooth waves in the puddles near by indicating whatever did this was  _ swinging  _ them around as it toyed with them: like a cat would a small mouse. 

Why didn’t more of them run? Geralt wonders. The reports he had been able to scrounge up spoke of only one, albeit large, beast and the evidence around him gave weight to that. But if the creature had time to play with its live victims, how had it the chance to move from one to another before they fled?

The bard straightens out and claws his hands through his hair, visibly shaken and harrowed. Facing the forest instead of the horror, Jaskier takes a shaky breath. “Geralt. Geralt, not all- Ahem. Not all the bodies have the same rate of… of wasting”

The answer clicks into Geralt’s mind just as quickly as Jaskier speaks, and forces his mouth into a grim line.

“It wounded them all non-fatally. Quickly too. Left them to bleed. Then came back later” Geralt states, and to someone who did not know the Witcher better he sounds dispassionate and uncaring. Jaskier was not such a person, and knew with barely a glance over at his friend that this was affecting Geralt deeply- perhaps deeper than it was Jaskier. He stands above the corpse of someone far, far too young. 

Some of them were played with for only minutes, perhaps hours. Others… days. As long as their body could hold out.

He hears Jaskier clear his throat. “It took turns! It dragged the whole thing out. It  _ dragged  _ this all out- What beast could do that?”

A Human, Geralt nearly snaps, but there’s no way this was anything close to Human.

At the very crest of the hamlet is the base of a waterfall. It didn’t bellow out a huge mist of water as Geralt had seen the ones in Kaer Morhen do, no, this waterfall was too mellow and sluggish making its slow way over bundles of rocks. It looks almost decorative ending in a pool lined with buckets on ropes, no doubt where the people collected their water, if not for the gruesome display barely metres away.

_ Blood in the rivers.  _

Strange words given the soil near the three small streams- barely rivers, in fact- trailing off the main pool and winding their way around homes, were clean and did not smell of any blood. Blood stayed in the ground for too long for it to have been washed away, despite the downpours the area had in recent days. No one bled near the waters. 

The clearest parts of the village were the pool and the miniature brooks. The only structure still standing the small scaffolding that led up the mountain to a ledge some several lengths up. 

Geralt’s amulet shivers against his chest and his hand reaches for his sword.

“Jaskier, stay here” He calls without looking back.

Jaskier squeaks. “What’s going on? Oh gods, it’s here isn’t it?”

“Quiet!”

Further up Geralt goes, leaving the perpetually damp base of the scaffolding, the more signs he finds and the angrier the wolf medallion shakes. Splattered across the mix of mossy stones and aged wood were wet patches- stark against the bone dry surfaces around it- sloppy in shape but unmistakable from treads in the mud far below. 

Risking a look away, Geralt assures himself that Jaskier is still on the ground where he might be safer, and sure enough the bard is at the base of the scaffolding perched on a large mossy boulder. The bard’s eyes are big and blue and scared as they meet Geralt’s cursory glance. He wishes he’d told Jaskier to leave completely, to run back to Murviel as fast as he could despite the sinking water clogged route there, but to be heard by the Human at this distance might mean being heard by the beast too, and thus bringing death for them both: Geralt needs the element of surprise. He grits his teeth and forces himself to look away. 

He hopes Jaskier leaves. Uses the large Oxenfurt trained brain he claims to have to good use. But Geralt knows the bard better and hates him for it.

At the very top of the cliff Geralt finds yet another construction winding its way up the mountain side, and at the base of the two ladders leading up are heavy sacks of dusty stones cut out from the mine the hamlet was built for. Some beautiful material when clean and polished, favoured by the very finest nobility and contributing an astronomical amount to the country’s economy and trading.

He recalls Jaskier gushing over fine carved combs made from the stuff at the higher end of Murviel’s marketplace. 

Before mounting the nearest ladder, Geralt pauses to pocket one of the smaller rocks.

No sooner had his foot touched the lopsided plank a roar breaks out. It cracks through the air. Seems to crush and squeeze his chest, and his sensitive Witcher ears ring in its wake. His medallion vibrates faster than he’s ever known it to before as a spray of rubble showers down from above- knocked loose by the explosion the beast’s cry caused. 

On the ground below, sneaking his way up the stairs, Jaskier shrieks and covers his ears when the bellow sounds. He slips back on the wet floorboards and falls half into the pool and half into the rocks. Air hisses through his teeth when a jagged edge of a rock pierces his side, glancing off a rib, and thoroughly ruins his doublet. 

“Jaskier, move!” Geralt’s voice shouts from above and Jaskier stares in shock as the Witcher bypasses the precarious scaffolding to simply leap down from the cliff edge to him, and understanding hits him like a clap of thunder when Geralt is quickly followed by the largest, ugliest thing Jaskier has ever laid eyes on.

It leaps further than Geralt, soaring over their heads and blocking their way to escape, and while Geralt is busy cursing at having been cornered, Jaskier lays there stock still taking in the creature.

Easily larger than a house, larger than a kikimora, the mottled, furred beast hunches forward in a way that implies an unimaginable height more so when standing on its hinds. There are no eyes that Jaskier can distinguish, only a bat-like face ripped into a snarl that seems to completely split its skull in two as it braces for another earth-shattering roar. At the ends of all four limbs were the long, curved claws that had slain the poor people of the hamlet and anyone else who came to help them, and they are darkened with what Jaskier wishes to be just mud and water.

He yelps out of his trance when Geralt grabs a fist full of his collar to haul him up. Jaskier moves back behind the Witcher and allows himself to be sandwiched between rock face and leather cladded armour: as hardened as he had become in their adventures, Jaskier has never seen anything like this, never been so frightened, and a churning gut feeling tells him Geralt has never encountered this thing before either. They’re blind and cornered.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... it's been a while. Ha.... I got hit with some serious writer's block for a long time, and this chapter has had about five rewrites in the last few months it's taken me. 
> 
> There's plot now! Yay. Will our heroes survive? I mean, yeah, short story otherwise, but ahh ha! I originally wasn't going to end this on a cliff hanger, but I pooped myself out completely and this is the closest to a coherent finale to the chapter so far, so here we go!
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and the next chapter will hopefully not take so long to get here.


	4. The Beast and The Bard

Fuck.

Geralt presses Jaskier as close back to the side of the mountain as he can, and hears the man give a small gasp as the air is punched out of him between armour and rock but ignores it. Jaskier’s breath and heartbeat are quick, almost distracting, and Geralt swats the notion away along with the rise of the hair at his nape when Jaskier’s hot breath brushes there.

Not important.

The beast snarls and growls, prowling around and it is now that Geralt realises with a burst of small relief that the creature cannot see. It appears to rely on sound; which is getting easier and easier the louder Jaskier breathes. 

As quietly as he can, Geralt angles so he partially faces Jaskier and covers the bard’s parted, panting mouth with a gloved hand. With a single glare from golden eyes, Jaskier closes his mouth tight, and when Geralt pulls away he puts a finger to his own lips to signify quiet. Satisfied with the slow nod Jaskier responds with, the Witcher readies himself to move. 

So long as Jaskier didn’t move he would be safe. So long as his gasps grew no louder. 

At Kaer Morhen many techniques for fighting were taught. It was essential that the boys first learned how to move silently, as there was no good hunting evil that could hear you coming before you were even close enough to strike. Moving with the sleekness and soft-foot of cats is second nature to Geralt now, more familiar to him than leaving a heavy stred that other longsword wielders might have. The lighter silver blade glides silently through the air as he walks closer, closer, clo-

Behind him, Geralt hears with cold dread in his gut, Jaskier’s boot slip on the moss coated stone he’d stood on and splash into the water once more. 

The beast roars again and Geralt can only just make out Jaskier swearing- sees the words on the bard’s lips when he spins and sees Jaskier with one foot in the water and arms out to catch his balance- before everything narrows into one thought: protect Jaskier. 

Jaskier, by saving grace, has some instincts and ducks down as the creature leaps towards him faster than Geralt can return to his side. In a move Geralt is proud of, Jaskier rolls off to the side, hissing in pain as he tumbles over stones, and while completely soaked to the bone he is at least not in the way when the creature’s large, heavy skull cracks into the mountain side. It shrieks, either in pain or frustration at its prey escaping it, and the sound cripples Geralt to his knees. 

Witcher hearing is too sensitive for this creature, Geralt realises as his body refuses to respond. The sound carries like a spear through his ears and head, so loud he doesn’t even notice that Jaskier has made it to him; his weaker Human hearing a rare advantage in this hunt. 

“-alt! Geralt! Get up, get up, get the fuck up” Jaskier is bellowing, shoving at Geralt’s immovable form. Finally the beast’s cry tapers out and Geralt is freed from the paralytically ear-splitting roar, his body finally relaxing and returning to his control. 

The second it does Geralt wrenches Jaskier with him down flat to the ground, narrowly dodging the next leap from the creature in their direction. Its confounding size blots out the sun as it overshoots them, still unable to surely detect them if they are still and muted.

Mammoth ears flap and twitch as it listens for them. Huge paws carry it around somewhere behind them and the both can hear clear as day it snuffling the ground and letting out quick whistles that are not nearly as deafening as its earlier calls. 

Geralt does not believe in luck. The chance that it could be as simple as lying on the ground still to keep them safe is too slim in a word as shit as theirs. And sure enough, Geralt feels Jaskier twitch next to him seconds before a large object nudges his leg. 

If it screams again, it could knock him out. Concuss him. He’d be useless to save Jaskier. 

“Run” Geralt growls in Jaskier’s ear, jumping up and dragging the bard with him. The best choice now is for Jaskier to flee as fast as he could while Geralt held the beast off. He hopes, quietly prays, that he holds out long enough that Jaskier could at least reach the tree line where the sounds of the forest might confuse and disguise him.

Jaskier doesn’t waste any time arguing with Geralt about it and sets off at a brutally swift pace right towards the forest only thirty meters out. With long, strong legs and a colourful background in escapism, the bard had a high chance, so long as Geralt did his part.

With only a glance to check Jaskier was off; Geralt turns his attention to the giant creature and with his sword raised, aims for the neck and mouth. If he cannot kill it swiftly now, he could at least damage those vocal chords to give himself a much needed advantage. 

His sword plunges into the meat of the creature’s shoulder, missing the neck and artery as it too shifted to strike at Geralt. With a dagger pulled from his belt Geralt swiftly stabs through the beast’s neck, dealing a quick double blow before its huge claws slam into him and send him flying through the air and into a debilitated shack close by. Rocks and splintered wood fall over him, pounding harsh even through the protection of his armour. His silver sword is still firm in his grip and in the back of his mind he notes, should he survive this ordeal, to take it to a blacksmith to check, while the dagger is lost. Clambering out of the rubble and casting the half rotten body of a stranger he’d fallen on an apologetic look, Geralt braces to cast Aard. 

The Sign ripples out from him and knocks the beast back as it tries to pounce on the momentarily incapacitated Witcher, and with grim satisfaction Geralt notes the slices from his sword are deep on the beast’s shoulder. As it rolls along he spies his dagger still lodged in its neck. 

Something glints nearby, catching Geralt’s eye, and he sees Jaskier running… No. No he told Jaskier to leave. The reckless bard ought to be well into the forest by now and on his way to safety, not returning as quickly as he had previously fled. The peaking sun once again catches on something in Jaskier’s hand, and Geralt recognises it as the twin to the dagger already in the beast. He had purchased the blades years ago, before meeting Jaskier, and had given Jaskier one of them under the strictest of orders not to try being a hero with it: only to use it if Geralt could not reach him in time, and it was all Jaskier had. 

Larger yet lighter than the throwing knives Geralt knew Jaskier hid all over his person and lute, it is woefully unsuitable for tossing. The hilt is too broad, the shape not aerodynamic. Geralt knows this the same way he knows the sky is blue and grass green, and with one look at Jaskier’s face the other man knows this too. 

Jaskier isn’t going to throw the silver dagger.

The split second of distraction is all the beast needs to right itself and leap in one staggering bound onto Geralt. He brings his sword up, pressing the blade’s edge into the thick matts of fur as the monster slams down into him over and over. 

Three things happen all at once in the following second. 

First. A long, arching claw punctures through the armour at Geralt’s shoulder and pierces through flesh underneath.

Second. Jaskier reaches them at last, heart racing and soaked with spring water and sweat alike. 

Third. The silver dagger in Jaskier’s hand comes down, down, into the beast’s ear. Slicing flesh as it sinks and sinks, and sinks. Much deeper and cleaner than anticipated, than believed.

In the next moment Geralt grunts in agony and the beast too shrieks in its own hell. The silver blade glides through the cartilage inside its ear, the size of which swamps Jaskier’s entire body, and the bard’s weight pushes it deeper still. Down until there is a crunch. And a squelch. And then the beast drops like strings cut on a puppet.

Above them, startled birds scatter across the sky.

With no life left in the beast, Geralt is easily able to grip the toe the claw protrudes from and prize it from his shoulder. It hurts, but it’s no worse than other pains he has suffered. Groaning, Geralt rolls away from the monster and coughs blood up onto the mud beneath him. 

“Oh gods” Jaskier shouts. Geralt tilts his head to see, leisurely for the bard’s voice is not fretful but disgusted. Wet slaps and squelches follow movements as Jaskier struggles to pull himself out of the creature’s impossibly large ear. “Gods, Geralt! Geralt, help. I’m… I’m stuck in this vile... Are you alright?”

Jaskier’s tone shifts entirely when he moves the flimsy skin of the beast’s ear aside to look down at his friend, his dramatics dropped instantly, and blue eyes widen dramatically at the sight of Geralt’s bleeding shoulder.

Geralt manages to stay awake just long enough to watch, deliriously amused, Jaskier tumble down from the ear and down the monster’s snout to land beside him. 

Warm hands cup his cheeks.

“-wake” 

“soon-”

“- as new”

Then there is nothing but the soft tones of a lute.

* * *

Geralt wakes with a start that jerks his shoulder.

He’s back in their room at the tavern and his nose is full of the stench of his potions. The wound in his shoulder is far further along in healing than it would be if not for the right bottle in his pouch, and Geralt tries to remember when it had been administered.

His groan rouses Jaskier, who was perched at the foot of the bed, and there’s a clatter as Jaskier puts down his lute and crawls- bold as anything- up the bed so his hip comes to rest next to Geralt’s and his hands press the mattress either side of Geralt’s head.

“Geralt? Woh, steady, steady. You tear those stitches and you’re sewing them back up yourself. Don’t go wasting my fine work” The bard tsks, pressing one hand on Geralt’s chest. He lets Jaskier push him back down against the pillow. “That’s it”

This was far from the first time he had awoken to find Jaskier had patched him up and gotten him somewhere safe. Usually it was their campsite and not a soft, straw packed bed, but overall there’s nothing strange about the scenario. Except of course, for the huge grin across Jaskier’s face that airs more on the smug side than the relieved side.

“My dear Witcher, awake at last. Just in time to hear my newest song” He winks and gets off the bed, content to move away now he knows Geralt is settled. Geralt blames his tender, wounded state and sleep addled brain on why Jaskier’s voice sounds so enticing in the privacy of their rented room. “It’s still a work in progress, but I think it’s going to be a hit!”

Geralt huffs, his lips minutely twitching. “Haven’t you enough lies to sing about me”

Sweeping up his lute, Jaskier pirouettes in the small space they have, and mock bows to Geralt. “Alas, this time, you are not the subject. And besides, none of my songs are lies: merely embellished”

It’ll be hours before Geralt is healed enough to rise from the bed easily and a day or two before it would be wise to head back to the Path. With a sigh, Geralt resigns himself to Jaskier’s cheerful tunes: not that he would admit it, but it was hardly a task when Jaskier always made sure to pluck the strings softer when they were alone to caress not assault Witcher ears.

“This one is about how I, Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove, the wondrous bard Jaskier and barker of the great White Wolf, defeated the Beast of the Mountain” Jaskier announces grandly, plucking out a more complex version of the tune Geralt had heard in the waves of consciousness into darkness. He pauses his introduction for just a moment to lean forward. “And fret not, we have been paid. I couldn’t cut that ghastly thing’s whole head off so I settled for the ear. Had to go back with Roach for the thing, it was huge!”

Geralt frowns.

“Only a half day” Jaskier answers Geralt’s unasked question without a blink. “I didn’t leave until your wound stopped bleeding and my poor clothes dried. They were ruined, Geralt, ruined! As is the shoulder piece”

They’ll need to find a leather worker too then. An easy enough task in a town as large as Murviel. 

As much as Jaskier talks about his own clothes, there’s a part of Geralt that knows Jaskier well enough to realise it’s a diversion tactic. Jaskier often prattled about benign things when Geralt was badly hurt, as if the bard didn’t like to dwell on the reality that Geralt could have easily died. It had always seemed odd to Geralt, who was used to death and peril and accepting it for what it was, but like many other eccentricities Jaskier had, Geralt ignored it.

“Now, hush, hush” The bard sings out, even though his one-man audience hadn’t said a word. “I bring to you: The Beast and The Bard!”

Despite the pain and despite his headache, Geralt hid a smile as the song lilts out through the room. It is nice for once to hear a song of adventure and excitement, grand and layered with a style specific to Jaskier, that isn’t embarrassingly about him. 

If he falls asleep before the end, it’s no matter to either of them, he’ll hear it plenty of times in future taverns and villages. And if he detects the softest touch of calloused hands across his brow as he drifts, safe enough not to set off his Witcher senses, it too is no matter: as neither will dare mention it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bro. Bro. Is it gay to get distracted by your bro breathing against your neck? Bro. Is it gay to softly stroke their face as they fall asleep safe and sound in your shared bed? Hm?
> 
> This is a pretty bad time to realise Jaskier is difficult to write for...
> 
> I'm going to attempt to get this fic updated every Monday now my writer's block has finally lifted. Also, something to look forward to: Yennefer is appearing at last, in the next chapter!!!!


	5. Just Another Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I swear it's Monday, three weeks ago. 
> 
> Warning for this chapter: period typical homophobia.

Some thousand leagues away, distanced from the chilly winds of the northern kingdoms where two men she had developed an unwilling preference for, Yennefer of Vengerberg has made herself at home in an affluent town within Toussaint. As is her prerogative, the home selected is grand and comfortable, with enough space for her and all her needs. It belongs to a younger lord; new to his title after the recent death of his father, and not nearly as mature in mind making him easier than most to manipulate. 

Her plan is to winter in the home. The views are pleasant, the pantry full, and there is enough interest in the surrounding community in the help of a mage that Yennefer doubts she will grow too bored staying around for such a length of time. 

Draped across what was once a meeting table, central in the arrangement of the greenhouse side room constructed later against the older main building, Yennefer had the long deceased body of an Archespore. Aside from a few larger leaves of ivy climbing around the glass planes, there are no shadows to disturb her work and Yennefer finds herself quietly pleased by the fortune of a room so well lit for her work. Oftentimes, she and other mages would be shoved in dim rooms with small windows and they were expected to smile gratefully at their king for the facilities he provided them. Despite being powerful and grand, most mages did in fact require a level of sight to do their work. 

It is there, in the warm, close heat of the greenhouse with the barest layer of sweat beading on her skin, that Yennefer finds her solitude interrupted.

“Come in” She snaps, not looking up as she glides her blade down a vein of the Archespore. Usually such filthy tasks were beneath a mage, especially herself, but Yennefer needed multiple parts of the plant-like beast and even now scowls at the thought of how much apothecaries would overcharge for each individual aspect. 

Violet eyes dart up, and then for a brief moment double take, when on delicate steps comes Triss. Her spine straightens and her mouth softens.

“Yennefer, it’s been some time” Triss greets, radiant and smiling. 

Yennefer puts down her knife and picks up a rag to clean her hands, moving around the table as she does so towards her old friend. The weight of her worries ease as she comes closer and accepts Triss’ eager embrace, smiling as her chin rests on Triss’ rose gold adorned shoulder.

“The Continent is large” She says simply when they pull away. “And I shan’t be kept anywhere for long”

It’s a jab, light and not directed at Triss herself, so the shorter mage huffs. “Indeed. I’ve searched for you and seem to only ever find stories instead. Heard of your mixes with a particular Witcher”

Yennefer’s brightened mood drops and she tosses the cloth down sharply. “I’ve had a number of encounters with a number of different Witchers, as have you I’m sure.”

A blush flashes over Triss’ cheeks, intriguing Yennefer, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. “Geralt of Rivia-”

Violet eyes roll hard enough to hurt. 

“- is as of late even harder to locate than you, Yennefer. For some weeks now I’ve been attempting to deliver him a message, an important one, but it is as if he no longer exists” Triss drives on, brow furrowing with worry. “I was hoping you may have spoken recently, or know where to find him”

Determined to separate herself from the topic, Yennefer turns away and walks back through the archway whence Triss came to bee-line for the lounge overlooking a huge orchard. As she walks, she calls over her shoulder, knowing her friend is following. 

“I last saw Geralt in Cidaris four moons ago. There isn’t a lot I can tell you as there wasn’t much talking done” Her mouth twitches up. “He was there for a contract, I was there being paid handsomely by the alderman to cure his niece of her ails, and we parted ways within a few hours”

_Woke up alone after. As usual._ She thought bitterly. 

She drops with less elegance than usual on an oversized orange chaise longue and indicates to the chair opposite for her friend. Triss’ usually smiling features are still pinched with worry even in the face of Yennefer’s euphemism, contrary to their past encounters where Yennefer often had Triss giggling. 

As she sits, Triss implores: “Are you sure you’ve no way of contacting him? I cannot stress the importance of this matter enough”

“Is his life in danger?” Yennefer asks, true concern bleeding through her facade of indifference. Her heart beats hard in her chest.

Triss bites her lip. An old habit her fellow mage thought she had long since trained out of herself. “Perhaps, if he were to get in the way. He’s known for travelling with a bard, is he not?”

At the mention of Jaskier, Yennefer’s heart speeds again. It had been some time since their first meeting in Rinde and in that time she had come to find him begrudgingly funny. His snide comments whenever they met sparked heat in her that Yennefer planned to never admit aloud to anyone. Mental and verbal sparring had always been enjoyable for her, and where Geralt lacked the right edge with those he cared for- although delightfully dry and sarcastic with strangers- Jaskier’s words were a fine blade sparking off her own. It helped too that he was a beautiful man. Yennefer had been disturbed the first time his image drifted to mind when she took her pleasure alone, instead of the face of Geralt or even Triss opposite her, she’d come to like actively imagining the things she would like him to do to her, and do to him. From what she had heard of the bard, he was amenable to much bedroom delights.

“That lost puppy? Indeed. I have only seen Geralt once without him; otherwise they seem inseparable. I don’t know how Geralt can stand it” Yennefer contemplates this for a moment. Wondering, in her guarded mind, if there was something more there than friendship between them. Jaskier was easy to read with his lust for Geralt rolling in waves, and his blossom-sweet affection, but Geralt had been trained to keep mages out at Kaer Morhen. 

“A song the boy sings has gathered interest in the Council” Yennefer’s eyes narrow. Odd that a mere bard’s tunes would be of any interest to them. “Have you heard it, his most recent? The Beast and the Bard. Enjoyable, I rather like his songs”

Yennefer thinks back to the first time she heard said song and laughs. It had been the silliest of his in her opinion. “Greatly exaggerated. I hardly believe that man had any hand in killing such a beast, or even that the beast existed. Why, they can’t seriously believe it’s real?”

“It is” Triss corrects in a clipped tone. “Or at least it used to, before Jaskier killed it”

“Come on, it’s more likely Geralt killed it and Jaskier threw a pebble at it’s eye”

The conversation was beginning to grate on Yennefer’s nerves. Any pleasure she would usually take from Triss’ company, especially after so long, was rapidly dying. Her nails dig into the fabric of the pillow beneath her.

“Stregobor has put forward a request for study and experimentation upon the bard” Triss snaps finally, her hands in fists in her lap. Yennefer’s jaw clicks shut and a tendon twitches there. “And it has been granted. As we speak they are searching for him, and anyone who’s associated with him who may know where he is. Geralt is among the list of people”

Fire travels through Yennefer’s veins. 

“Why? Because of a song?”

“A song, Yennefer, that correlates to a prophecy. Do you recall those we studied?” She doesn’t wait for Yennefer’s nod. “Think. What does a huge bat-like beast in a mountain of water sound like?”

Yennefer casts her mind back as asked. Her time studying the prophecies had been brief, covering only the basics, during her time at Aretuza but Istredd had been fascinated. She could recall him telling her about them in far more detail than curriculum required; how bright his eyes had gotten recounting each one, wondering if and when each one would come to be. She knew too that Stregobor was just as invested, himself with the vigor of a frantic madman. 

Oh. Melilite’s Hound.

> _ A beast guarding the tomb of Lilit herself, Yennefer! It is said that the demon goddess was buried within rock, water, silver and a creature, huge and ancient, an agent of Melilite.  _

“Its cry, the final sound” Yennefre recites, absentminded sounding in her thoughts. “Deadly and unstoppable. And they honestly think Jaskier, of all people, managed that?”

Triss sighs, deflating into her chair. “It seems so. There’s no possible way he would have known about Melilite’s Hound. The tome detailing the prophecy has been heavily guarded, only mages know of it. How would a bard from nowhere know?”

They share a profound look.

“Unless” Yennefer whispers, grim and convinced. “Jaskier isn’t from nowhere at all”

* * *

“Another!”

“Yeah, another! Sing Fishmonger’s Daughter again!”

“No- No, sing that one about the Witcher!”

Jaskier grins at the crowd around him, their tankards lifted in the air in salute of his skills. He’s drunk, they’re drunk, everyone is flush with coin to give and hearts lightened by Geralt ridding them of a noonwraith plaguing them for months. His skin is hot and wet with sweat from dancing as he sang, weaving between strangers and laughing as they seemed to form a game of tucking coins in his clothes as he passed, and he suspects he will need to step out into cooler air soon less he faint. It had happened before, horrifyingly, and Geralt hadn’t spoken to him in two days after growling not to be so stupid.

Truly, his dearest Witcher had his own ways of showing he cared.

“Alas, that does not narrow it down, friends” Jaskier laughs, swiping hair from his damp brow. He looks over at Geralt out of habit, and sees the man hiding a smile in his drink. Being paid handsomely and not being cast out of town immediately always did wonders for the Witcher’s mood.

A hulking man, deep in his cups, flaps his hands between his companions and Jaskier perched to rest nearby. His eyes are glazed. “Nah, no more songs about the Witcher bastard. I want Fishmonger’s Daughter!”

Jaskier’s expression turns to ice.

The man’s equally drunk friend slaps him. “We already heard tha’ one, Hern. I want that one about the lord who shat himself”

Laughter roars around them. The requested song was a funnier tune, written in spite of a lord who had in fact soiled himself upon seeing Geralt arrive with proof of kill, a blood dripping head of a kikimora, and then refused to pay thanks to the humiliation of it. No names were mentioned, Jaskier valued his life after all, but the song never failed to have Geralt’s mouth twitch and his eyes crinkle.

Despite his jovial audience and the humour of the memory, Jaskier is glacial. 

“I’m afraid I’m exhausted. I bid you all goodnight” Jaskier seethes out, eyes on Hern. Before anyone can voice complaints he turns on his heels and storms to the stairs, swatting aside hands that try to shove more coins in his garments, only pausing to snatch up his lute case as he wades through the packed inn. Unlike in larger cities, the tavern served the same purpose as an inn, a fact Jaskier loathed now knowing the man would simply be downstairs until who knew when: any sleep he might get would likely be disturbed knowing that.

The cheers and yelling conversation down below barely fades as he ascends the stairs. Normally he would have played longer, until the locals grew tired themselves and wandered off home for the night, but he just… can’t stomach it anymore.

He barely reaches the door to their room before he feels Geralt behind him, having easily caught up. It doesn’t surprise him: Geralt rarely liked to linger in such rowdy places unless Jaskier insisted or was performing, intent on making sure no one took things too far with his bard. 

“What?” Jaskier eventually snaps after a minute or so of him fighting off his clothes beside the bed, with Geralt standing still by the closed door watching him. 

Geralt’s brow quirks down. “Jaskier-”

“I’m tired and I cannot stand hearing people speak of you like that. Thought you’d be pleased I didn’t ruin our good luck and get us ran out of here” Jaskier rants. He aggressively flicks his doublet off his arm, not even picking it up from where it slaps to the ground. “A nice bed? We’ve not had the chance in over a week. Personally I think my restraint is commendable”

“People have called me worse” Geralt says softly.

“That doesn’t make it better, Geralt. No one should be calling you anything, especially after you rid them of their problem. Ungrateful-”

A hand comes down gently on his shoulder, just a light touch, but it’s enough to have him freezing in place.

“I am one.”

Jaskier hums, confused. While pent up, drunk and almost vibrating with rage, Jaskier has enough clarity to see how uncomfortable Geralt looks. Yellow eyes are focused on the chord of Jaskier’s chemise neckline rather than meeting his gaze.

“A bastard. It…” Geralt cuts off, then tries again. “It doesn’t bother me to be called one. It’s just a fact.”

The bard ducks his head, breathing out heavily, and closes his eyes. “It was not the word, but  _ how  _ he said it. He said it as if being a b- a bastard is something dirty.”

If Geralt notices his slip up, he doesn’t mention it. “To many it is.”

Being a bastard, the knowledge of being one, is one of the few things Geralt recalls about his life before. Born out of wedlock was a trivial thing for a Witcher and no one in Kaer Morhen had cared, as many boys sent there were ones themselves: cast aside by humiliated cuckold husbands, ashamed fathers with sobbing daughters begging her baby not be sent  _ there  _ of all places, or women who couldn’t face the child of their rapist. Finding out it was a shameful thing to be came only a few years into being on the Path and Geralt had put it down to another reason for Humans to detest him.

What was one more thing, when they already spat at his feet?

Jaskier swallows thickly and Geralt can smell the salt of unshed tears. “People like my father.”

Shock shoots through Geralt at this revelation, at the implication in those four words, but he doesn’t show it. Instead, he stays quiet and waits for Jaskier to elaborate. 

To his surprise though, Jaskier doesn’t.

Instead, Geralt finds the crook of his neck wet from Jaskier’s sniffles and his jaw warm with his fluffed brown hair. It tickles dangerously close to the corner of his mouth.

The Witcher stands frozen as his friend leans fully against him, hands hovering awkwardly as he fights with himself. A part of him, a huge part, that has grown used to Jaskier’s tactile nature and come to long for it wants to rest his palms against the curve of the bard’s spine, but the other half snarls against it. Not only because a Witcher cannot feel, doesn’t, and therefore could never offer comfort like Jaskier needed, but also because of something Geralt would never put words to.

A reason that was, in the end, was just one more thing to have people spitting at his feet.

He just cannot stand the thought that Jaskier could end up being one of them if he knew. A bastard was one thing, being  _ like that  _ was another entirely. Even other Witchers dropped slurs about  _ that. _

Geralt could remember Eskel’s cautionary tale, wounded in his heart and scarred on his abdomen, from when his own interests were discovered and immediately punished. He’d nearly lost his brother that spring, and he wouldn’t have known until the following winter months later when Eskel would never show.

“Sleep. We rise early tomorrow.” He says, quietly cursing how rough his voice sounds from how close Jaskier is- from the strong smell of him in Geralt’s acute nose, heady and deep from dancing, singing and sweating in the bar below- and ignores the wounded sound Jaskier makes when he steps away. Jaskier tips and stumbles at the sudden loss, but nonetheless finishes stripping down to his smallclothes, and settles on their shared bed. 

He curls up in a pitiful ball and faces the wall, pressed close to give Geralt plenty of space, and the Witcher hovers for a moment- just watching, seeing Jaskier’s bare shoulder rise with his breaths- before silently moving around to take off his armour. 

Despite there being enough room for him beside the bard, Geralt doesn’t trust himself not to do something stupid like rest his hand on the curve of Jaskier’s naked waist or brushing his lips to that soft nape, so he hunkers down on the floor.

He doesn’t sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm messing with lore and stuff, but what is fanfic but a way of doing that!?
> 
> You can pry gay Eskel from my cold dead hands. That man has no interest in women at all. He loves men. Men. Men. Men. Our Witcher pals are an example of when a group of queer kids gather together at school in a little gay friendship group.
> 
> Also yeah this is a fic where Geralt knows he's in love with Jaskier because as funny as oblivious Geralt is, I feel like this repressed fool would sit like Mr Darcy in the corner seething with pent up love and affection. 
> 
> Triss: unintentionally hints she likes Geralt  
> Yennefer, while liking Geralt herself: disappointing, terrible taste, where's the flavour huh?

**Author's Note:**

> People really seemed to like this idea on tumblr, so here we go!


End file.
